Bad Blood
by fanspired
Summary: A clue about the Colt leads Sam Campbell and Dean Winchester to Red Lodge where Dean is surprised and delighted to run into an old college buddy, Jim Masters. Sam isn't so thrilled, and is determined to prove the handsome charmer isn't all he appears. Meanwhile, a confrontation with vampires stirs painful memories of his fatal last case with the Campbells. SLASH ROMANCE SUB-PLOT.
1. Prologue

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:** This is episode 6 in the series **"The Song Remains the Same",** a serialized story written in the episodic style of the original show. **It can be read as a stand alone story, and a summary of the story so far will be given at the beginning of this episode. **(Btw there is a lovely little photo banner that goes with this story. If you'd like to see it, google: fanspired live journal and click on "Bad Blood" in the serial master post.

**Other episodes in this series:**

Pilot episode **"I Can Never Go Home"**

Episode 2 **"Golem"**

Episode 3 **"Prank'd"**

Episode 4: **"Together"**

Episode 5:** "Something Wicked?"**

**(Remember, if you have favourited me as an author, you still need to favourite/story alert this episode to be sure of receiving alerts from the site when it has been updated).**

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**ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS AND DISCLAIMERS: **I should like to offer my grateful thanks to my most loyal supporter for being my beta-reader and, as always, I offer my apologies to the writers and creators of _Supernatural _for my use and abuse of their original material. I write for love only, _Supernatural_ belongs to Eric Kripke/CW. PLEASE NOTE: This episode contains an homage to a much loved Joss Whedon character, but this is NOT a crossover story; it retains the integrity of the Supernatural universe and its rules. Also, any similarity to living actors ends at the name. My apologies to Joss and his people. Please take it as a compliment :)

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**EPISODE 6: BAD BLOOD**

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_**THE ROAD SO FAR:**_

_After leading a hunting raid that leads to the death of his cousin, Sam Campbell is estranged from his hunter family and tries to escape the life. He attempts to start afresh in a new town and is employed by John Winchester, but a death vision of John's wife and son under horribly familiar circumstances draws him back into the world of the supernatural. When the yellow eyed demon possesses John and murders his wife, Amanda, Sam rescues their son Dean and teaches him about hunting. Dean abandons his old life as a college student and would be musician and, together, he and Sam embark on a quest to find and rescue John, and avenge the deaths of their mothers. _

_The friends have tentatively embarked on a sexual relationship. Dean is coaxing Sam to address his intimacy issues and they have been growing closer. Sam is considering telling Dean about his psychic abilities. Meanwhile a clue about the Colt from the demon Gemma (Ruby in disguise) has led them to Red Lodge._

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**Prologue**

_**Sunrise, Wyoming. May 1**__**st**__** 1856.**_

There was no sound at first but for the wind in the trees and the song of birds. At first. Then came the distant rumble of hooves, drawing nearer, growing louder, until the horse thundered along the dirt track and drew up sharply in the clearing outside the old timber shack. The rider, a fair haired man with a young face and old eyes, swung free of the saddle and dropped to the ground, spurs rattling as his boots hit the dirt, the tails of his long coat swaying around his shins. He didn't bother to tether the horse to the hitching rail, just let it wander freely up the track; he knew it wouldn't roam far. Pausing to light a cheroot he inhaled deeply, lips twisting into a sardonic smirk as he surveyed his environment

"Home sweet home?" he challenged, betraying traces of a deep southern drawl, as he let himself into the cabin.

The weathered old hunter barely glanced up from the volume where he was scribbling in a rapid sloping hand. "For now," he confirmed, gruffly.

"You're a long way from Connecticut," the young man observed. "I heard you were building a railroad. Not enough profit in arms dealing, then?" There was no response except the scratching of the pen so he continued in a more serious tone. "Your devil's trap won't stop it, Colt. There's only one thing that will. Do you have it or not?"

The hunter finally raised his head. Tossing back his jacket he revealed the gun holstered at his hip. "You have to catch him first," he pointed out.

"Oh, I'll find him," the visitor drawled, low and silky. "But will it get the job done?"

A humorless smile touched the corners of Colt's lips as he drew the gun out of the holster and handed it to the fair haired man. "This gun will kill anything that walks on God's green earth," he assured him.

"The Beast, too?"

The confidence withered from Colt's expression, but he nodded nevertheless. "It'll kill the Demon and his spawn if it comes to that," he said. "Better it doesn't."

The visitor examined the weapon. It was a thing of beauty, a precision instrument in every detail. The inky black metal was ornately decorated, there was a pentacle branded into the polished walnut grip, and the barrel bore the legend "non timebo mala". There were 5 bullets loaded in the cylinder.

"The rest are in there." Colt indicated a box on the desk. "Don't waste 'em. The gun's useless once they're gone." He watched the other man place the gun in its box and close the lid, but as he moved to pick it up Colt held it with a restraining hand. "I'm trusting you with a fearful weapon," he said. "It isn't to be used indiscriminately."

The other man smirked. "Growing morals in your old age, Colt?" he asked.

"I'm thinking of the children," Colt persisted. "They're not the monsters. They're just innocent victims."

The visitor raised his gaze from the box. His knowing eyes held Colt's, and his lips peeled back in a rueful grin that revealed the sharp points of his second set of teeth. "So were we all," he commented, "once upon a time."

Colt absorbed the point then nodded grimly. "Once upon a time," he agreed.

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	2. Scene 1

_**Red Lodge, 150 years later.**_

Sam and Dean were arguing about the trunk. Actually, they were arguing about several things, but Sam hadn't appreciated the weapons cache was one of them until he opened it to return the salt rope to its place and found that, once more, its place had been moved. Originally when Dean had put everything back wrong Sam had simply attributed it to Dean's general disorderliness and quietly returned everything to its proper place. He'd done the same without commenting on subsequent occasions when he'd found the weapons muddled. Now, however, he was beginning to recognize a pattern. Dean was repeatedly putting things back in the _same_ wrong order. Sam huffed and stared hard at the collection. Try as he might he couldn't fathom the logic of the arrangement, but there _must _be one if Dean was so insistent on it. The best he could do, in the end, was to memorize the places Dean had found for everything. Sam wasn't prepared to make this another point of contention between them. It wasn't worth it. It was easier in the end, as it was with so many things, to just let Dean have his way.

Dean came out of the gas station looking frustrated and folding the picture Sam had printed off from Gemma's obituary between his fingers.

"No dice," he said, shaking his head. "Let's try over there."

Sam shrugged and followed Dean to the bar across the road. More and more he was finding himself letting Dean call the shots, even when he wasn't convinced of the wisdom of it, because that was the line of least resistance. He was hardly in a position to force the issue. Not like the search for John had really progressed under Sam's direction in the six months he and Dean had been hunting together and, obviously, Dean needed to see some forward momentum. Who was Sam to put a roadblock in front of the first piece of information that looked like a tangible lead? No matter how bogus he might think it was, or how risky he thought pursuing it might be. Dean was probably right: the time for playing it safe had passed. Even if that meant Sam was spending his entire time glancing over his shoulder, watching their backs, keeping one hand in his pocket and cradling the holy water.

"How's it going?" Dean asked the barman when they reached the counter.

"Living the dream," the guy replied, off-handed. "What can I get for you?"

"Two beers, please."

Maybe Sam just didn't trust his own leadership enough to stand up to Dean now that he was starting to challenge Sam's judgment.

"So, we're looking for some people," Dean explained.

The barman raised his eyebrows a tad as he passed them their beers. "Sure. It's hard to be lonely," he mocked.

"Yeah," Dean agreed. "But that's not what I meant. Have you seen either of these people in town, maybe in the last few days?" Dean placed the picture of Gemma and another of John on the counter along with a $50 bill to sweeten the barman's mood.

The guy studied the photos while he cleaned a glass but he shook his head. "Keep your money," he said. "I haven't seen 'em. But I'll ask around for you."

"How about a guy with blue eyes?" Dean persisted. "Have you noticed anyone like that?"

This time there was a definite pause before the barman replied "not more than a dozen this morning."

"Never mind," Sam interrupted, and glancing at the bar menu he ordered a chicken salad. They might as well eat while they were here. Dean ordered a burger and they took their beers over to a table by the dartboards and played a few games over lunch.

"Dean, this is a waste of time," Sam objected once more. "We're getting nothing and we're just making targets of ourselves by staying here. We should move on."

"Move on where, Sam?" Dean demanded. "You didn't want to shag ass over to Connecticut."

Sam sighed. "Dean, every greenhorn hunter has been all over Connecticut. There's nothing there. No evidence the gun ever existed. It's a myth, an urban legend. I mean, come on! A gun that can kill anything? Forged under the influence of Halley's Comet? It's fantasy fiction."

"And that's all there is to the story?" Dean urged. "Nothing about what happened to it?"

"I've heard it said Samuel Colt made the gun for a hunter, a man like us only on horseback. Story goes he made thirteen bullets, and this hunter used the gun half a dozen times before he disappeared, the gun along with him. There's any number of variants, but that's the gist of it."

"And none of them mention Red Lodge?"

"No."

Dean picked up the darts and started throwing them at the board, hitting double top with his first throw and putting the next two in the treble. His accuracy was improving all the time, probably on a par with Sam's now. He had a certain natural aptitude for physical tasks. He was good with the guns: not just the shooting, but the maintenance, and he'd taken over the task of preparing their ammo now as well. All of that suited Sam, on the whole. It left him free to concentrate on the research, which was more his focus. Dean could do it when he needed to, he just didn't enjoy it the way Sam did. And so the division of labor had fallen into a kind of natural routine with each gravitating toward the tasks that suited their natures. The driving was probably a part of that. Dean's reluctance to let Sam take a share as often as he should was probably just his instinctive territoriality over the car, and a fundamental need to be in charge of his own motion. Sam didn't think it meant that Dean didn't trust him behind the wheel, but up until now he'd at least trusted Sam to give him a compass heading – read the maps, find the best and safest routes, cover their tracks. Now Dean had insisted on following the lead of a demon instead, and staying in this town to chase up some vague cryptic clue she'd left in the cemetery. It wasn't just that it left them exposed; it made Sam wonder if Dean was losing faith in his judgment, too.

"There's gotta be a reason why Gemma kept coming back to this town," Dean maintained. "If we keep digging, we'll find a connection."

"Yeah? What makes you so sure?"

Dean paused then handed the darts to Sam. "'Cause I'm the oldest, which means I'm always right."

Sam stared at him, dumbfounded. "No it doesn't!"

Dean grinned as he bit into his burger. "Yeah, it totally does," he affirmed.

Sam scowled as he aimed at the board, threw too quickly and hit a treble one and a five. He knew it was stupid to let the childish jibe rattle him. Dean was just being bloody minded to justify decisions that had no reason to them; he was sure there was a connection because he _needed_ there to be one.

"When _is_ your birthday, anyway?" Dean asked.

Sam was so thrown by the question he missed the board altogether. "_What_?"

"Last month you said it was next month, ergo it is now _this_ month," Dean elaborated between mouthfuls of burger. "So it must be soon."

Sam quietly pulled the darts out of the board. "Why do you want to know?"

Dean returned a quizzical look as he wiped his fingers on a napkin and took the darts from Sam. "Just want to be sure I order the stripogram for the right day," he explained.

Sam rolled his eyes. He wasn't going to let Dean wind him up this time. Dean had _better_ just be winding him up. "It's May 2nd."

Dean paused and directed his loose-lipped stare at Sam. Reaching down, he turned the newspaper on the table around and checked the date just to be sure. "Well, that's _tomorrow_," he pointed out. His tone was almost accusing.

"I guess," Sam agreed.

"You never said!"

"Well, maybe I don't _want_ a stripogram, Dean," he replied, trying to sound flippant, but there was an uncomfortable silence. He began to worry that Dean was genuinely offended he hadn't shared this information before, but it simply hadn't occurred to him.

Eventually Dean shrugged and took his place in front of the board. "Just as well 'cause it's probably too late to order one now. Still time to check out the local clubs, though. Maybe there's somewhere we can get you a lap dance to mark the occasion."

Sam halted with a forkful of chicken half way to his mouth. He really hoped Dean was joking, but he didn't find the suggestion remotely funny and it must have shown.

"Your face!" Dean remarked, grinning reassuringly. Leaning over, he held his mouth close to Sam's ear and purred "trust me, Sam, if you get a lap dance tomorrow night, it'll be from me," then he turned and put three quick darts in the treble twenty. Needless to say, Dean won that game.

Sam tried not to let Dean's suggestion distract him but it was hard . . . and kind of strange to think he might have a reason to look forward to his birthday for once. All the same he was relieved when Dean let the subject drop and he was allowed to finish his lunch in relative peace. They both had more important things to think about, after all.

They left a good tip for the staff, hoping to encourage the barman to make good on his promise, but Sam doubted it would make any difference. Dean still insisted on canvassing the rest of the town, though.

"We should split up, cover more ground," he suggested.

Sam stared at him. "Are you kidding? Do you _watch_ horror movies?" he cried.

Dean raised his eyebrows. He looked impressed. "Hey, have we finally found your genre, Sam?" he asked, grinning. "I don't remember the movie where the demons attack Main Street in broad daylight during shopping hours, though. Was that Monday the First part I or II?"

Sam scowled. "You're a real smart ass, you know that? I just think we should be cautious, that's all."

"Hey, I'm cautious!" Dean punctuated the point by opening his jacket and indicating the water pistol stowed in the inside pocket. "See. No surprises."

Sam was barely mollified but they set off on opposite sides of the street with a plan to meet back at the car when they were done.

The barman waited until he was sure they were out of sight then drew out his cell phone and keyed down his list of contacts. The ring tone trilled at the other end once or twice before a familiar voice answered.

"That guy you've been looking for is _here_," he told him. "And the tall one is with him, like you said. What do you want me to do?" He listened for a while then grunted. "Well, you'd better get here fast as you can," he said tersely. "I'm not real comfortable with having their kind in town."


	3. Scene 2a

**Author's Notes:**

**This is actually the first part of a longer scene but I wanted to post it now in honour of Jared's birthday. The second part will follow soon.**

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Sam walked all the way up and down N. Broadway without finding anyone who recognized the pictures, or who had noticed anything weird going on in town recently (not their kind of weird, anyway). He was ticked with Dean for taking longer than he'd expected him to on his end of the street and, in retrospect, he was sorry about that. Maybe in a different life, in a better world, Sam would have considered some explanation for Dean's lateness other than that he'd been ambushed by demons at E. 14th. He should have noticed odd details like Dean keeping his jacket fastened in the car, and some vaguely furtive behavior when he hung back to get a coke from the machine while Sam let himself into their room. It must have registered on some level, but Sam had more important things on his mind at the time.

And if Dean seemed more than usually restless and antsy that evening Sam put it down to frustration at the lack of new intel. After they'd finished scouring the local newspapers and turned up nothing of note even Dean was almost ready to concede that staying in the town was, at best, a waste of time. When Sam started actively seeking a new hunt, Dean didn't argue, even grudgingly agreed they should move on if Sam found a case that needed working, at least once Sam had assured him he'd continue to search for anything that connected Colt and the towns where Gemma had left her breadcrumb trail.

Sam only grew suspicious the next morning when he came back from the coffee run and Dean had already showered and dressed. It struck him that Dean seemed . . . keen . . . for Sam to drink the coffee and have his own shower. A careful inspection of the shampoo bottle, deodorant and toothpaste revealed nothing untoward but Sam remained alert while he took his shower, and positively wary when he came out of the bathroom drying his hair and discovered the room was dark. As he let the towel drop to his shoulders he realized that all the blinds were closed and the lights were off. The only illumination in the room was coming from the table where a small ring of candles was arranged around . . . a cupcake. And since he wasn't aware of any summoning rituals involving cupcakes he finally started to suspect this had something to do with his birthday.

"Surprise!" Dean's sing-song voice called from beside the table.

"Dean . . . what is this?" Sam asked, not really knowing what to say.

"Yeah, sorry," Dean said. "The cake was a bit of an afterthought and it was too late to get proper birthday candles. But it's the thought that counts, right?" He grinned brightly, a little uncertainly, and then he pulled out his cell phone. "Anyway, make a wish and blow them out and I'll give you your present."

"Present?" Sam felt stunned, and a little confused. Was Dean serious?

"Well, go ahead!" Dean prompted, holding up his cell.

Sam took a hesitant step toward the table. There was an inordinate pause while he tried to think what on earth he was supposed to wish for, but eventually he leaned toward the candles and took a deep breath.

"Hold it!" said Dean, and Sam was held in suspension for a moment until the phone camera flashed, and then he let out his breath and extinguished the candles. Dean cheered, stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled, and then he clutched the towel, drew Sam forward and planted a quick, soft kiss on his mouth. "Happy birthday," he murmured. Sam felt the warm breath of the utterance caress his lips, and then something being pushed into his hand. He took it in his slightly numb fingers, tightening his grip to make sure he didn't drop it. It was an envelope.

"Oh, wait!" Dean said, turning to open the blinds.

Sam winced slightly at the sudden intrusion of the light. He was feeling a little exposed and strange. He focused on the front of the envelope, which was inscribed with the message "Happy Birthday, Sam!"

"Well, are you gonna open it?"

Sam's fingers actually trembled a little as he lifted the flap out of the pocket and drew a large yellow card from the envelope. On the front there was a picture of a smiling kitten. (Well, it looked like it was smiling.) Beneath the picture was an announcement: "Mr. Snugglewhiskers wants to sing a birthday song for you!" Sam frowned, perplexed, and opened the card warily. Not warily enough, as it turned out, since he was completely unprepared when it rattled and shrieked at him. After he'd quelled his immediate impulse to reach for his gun and shoot something he absorbed the fact that the kitten was now standing next to a huge amp and speakers, and holding a pop-out cardboard guitar. This was the source of the noise and vibration, and Sam realized it was playing the "happy birthday" tune accompanied by the sound of a cat wailing. Over the kitten's head another message explained: "Did I forget to mention that Mr. Snugglewhiskers is a huge metal-head?"*

Sam laughed; immensely relieved to have something in this bizarre situation he knew how to respond to. He rolled his eyes. "Mr. Snugglewhiskers, Dean? _Really?_"

"Hey, Mr Snugglewhiskers is a cool cat," Dean insisted.

"What's this?" Sam asked, pointing to a small hand drawn picture at the bottom of the card. It looked like a radio mast with an X on top. "The RKO tower?" he suggested, thinking that was a reasonable guess, knowing Dean, but he couldn't see the relevance.

"It's the _Eiffel_ Tower, doofus!" Dean explained and waited, obviously expecting the information to illuminate the inscription. When Sam remained baffled he added "it's a_ French kiss_." Now Dean rolled his eyes, and huffed. He was clearly disappointed that his ingenuity hadn't been recognized and appreciated.

"Oh, I see!" Sam assured him elaborately. Grinning, he took a step toward Dean but he was halted by a restraining hand on his chest.

"Hold it, we're not done yet," Dean told him. He reached under the table and from one of the seats he produced the laptop and handed it to Sam. Now it was visible that there was a sheet of the motel stationery taped to the top, and hand-printed on the paper there was a statement:

**"CERTIFICATE OF ENTITLEMENT"**

**By authority of the party of the first part, heretofore ipso facto ad infinitum gloria in excelsis and vice versa, the property of the party of the first part, hereinafter referred to as "the laptop", shall be deemed to be the property of the party of the second part, hereinafter referred to as "Research Nerd". "Research Nerd" shall be deemed to have full custody, care and control of "the laptop" at all times and without reference to or permission from the party of the first part, hereinafter referred to as "Oh great, wise and most ineffably cool and sexy one, how may I best arrange myself for your pleasure?" Said custody is given fully, completely and unconditionally with the proviso that "the laptop" shall be available to "Oh great and wise one et al.," at all times and for any and all purposes unspecified, without bitching from "Research Nerd", or, being understood that all such bitching from "Research Nerd" will be completely ignored.**

**Signed:**

**_Dean Winchester_**

**(Oh great and wise one et al.)**

**On this day, May 2nd, in the year of Our Lord (or somebody's Lord, possibly, referenced without prejudice) and witnessed by the spider in the web on the ceiling in the corner nearest the desk (and that had better be gone before we go to bed tonight).**

Sam went over the statement three times with his frown deepening on each successive read. Eventually he looked up. "So . . . you're saying I don't need to ask permission to use the laptop any more?"

Dean winked and clicked his teeth by way of confirmation.

"Good to know your law studies weren't completely wasted," Sam observed wryly, taking another step toward Dean, but he met the hand again.

"And, of course, you get to hang on to the laptop when we're not using it, and lug it around in _your_ bag."

"And is that a good thing?" Sam queried.

"It is for _me_," Dean insisted, smirking, and Sam wasn't sure if Dean had just given a gift or off-loaded a responsibility.

"Are we done now?" Sam asked.

"Not quite." Dean reached under the table again and produced a large paper bag. He seemed, suddenly, uncharacteristically shy and unsure of himself. "Um . . . I got you this," he said, grinning awkwardly as he handed the bag to Sam. "Sorry, I'm not much for wrapping things but only girls do that, right?" He raised his gaze from the bag and studied Sam's face through the ends of his eyelashes, gauging his response.

Sam turned his attention to the parcel. He unpeeled the sticky tape that was holding the corners down, slid his hand inside the bag and slipped out the contents, which turned out to be a sketch pad – a proper artist's sketch pad – and a couple of boxes of watercolor pencils, one specializing in landscape colors, the other for portraits. He stared at the gift with a mixture of confusion and wonder. In his life he couldn't recall ever having been given anything so completely . . . un-functional. He glanced at Dean and could tell from the slightly anxious expression on the other man's face and a tinge of pink in his cheeks that this wasn't a joke. He knew he ought to say something but he had no idea what. He took a deep breath and opened his mouth, but before he found out what was going to come out of it a strange, aching bubble of emotion welled up from his chest and lodged in his throat and he shut his mouth again quickly, unable to trust himself to say anything at all.

Dean cleared his throat and rubbed his neck. "I thought maybe later we could call a time-out from all our usual shit, pick up a drive-thru and head into those hills just out of town and –" Dean stumbled to an abrupt halt as if he was suddenly alarmed by what he could hear himself saying. He straightened up and pinned the defensive cocky grin on his face. "Or whatever," he continued. "And then maybe I'll let you unwrap your other present," he added with a wink.

"_Other_ present?" Sam croaked, a little slow on the uptake, and Dean added an explanatory quirk of the eyebrow, holding out his hands in an expansive gesture. "Oh, right." Sam grinned, relieved to be back in familiar territory. "Must you cheapen the moment?" he joked, shakily.

"Yeah!" Dean insisted, also grinning.

Sam gazed down at the pad and pencils in his hand. He guessed he was going to have to take up drawing as a hobby now. It would look ungrateful if he didn't. And he couldn't help reflecting that Dean's birthday had gone by without either one of them acknowledging it. Not that he imagined Dean would have been in the mood for celebrating back then, so soon after his mother's death, but it hadn't even occurred to Sam to make anything of it. "Dean . . . why are you doing all this?" he asked, at the risk of making things even more awkward.

Dean's eyes widened for a moment then he responded with one of his dismissive raspberries. "It's your birthday, genius. You've never had a birthday present before?"

Sam shook his head slightly. "We didn't go in for celebrating that sort of occasion much in my family, especially not mine – " _Crap._ The last part was out of his mouth before he could stop it, and Dean jumped on it immediately.

"What do you mean '_especially'_ not yours?" he demanded in a tone that sounded almost offended. "Why not?"

Sam hesitated. "It's . . . It was all kind of wrapped up with my mother's death. I was exactly six months old that night."

Dean stared at him. "Well, that's . . ." he searched for the words to express his indignation. "That sucks ass, Sam! It wasn't your fault! Why did you have to suffer?"

Sam laughed gently. "I didn't suffer, Dean. I told you: birthdays weren't that big of a deal to us."

Dean remained stock still, sporting a poker faced expression, for a couple of seconds then he paced up and down once or twice before stopping again and holding up a finger. Next he picked up his duffel and started hunting through it. When he pulled out the leads for his guitar Sam started to get a little nervous.

"What are you doing, Dean? It isn't going to be noisy is it?"

Dean gave him '_I'm shocked! Would I?_' face and Sam responded with pointed '_you'd better not!_' face.

Dean grinned reassuringly. Picking up his guitar he plugged in the lead and moved over to the table. "Mind if I borrow the laptop, Sam?" he asked, as he prepared to connect the other end of the lead.

"W- what?" Sam stammered. "Are you kidding, Dean? You do not need my permission to – "

"Good," Dean interrupted, grinning, and Sam watched, half curious, half anxious, as he opened and booted up the computer. "Take a seat, Sam," Dean insisted as he opened applications. Sam sank down on the edge of the bed and presently a vaguely familiar rhythm issued from the laptop speakers. It began to take to take on form when Dean recorded chords to accompany the rhythm then set them on a repeating loop, and when he started playing a rock guitar version of the backing music over his own recording Sam recognized the song. He found himself smiling and ducking his head shyly as Dean appropriated the lyrics that had been written for another man, and started singing them just for Sam:

"_You know it doesn't make much sense.  
There ought to be a law against  
Anyone who takes offense  
At a day in your celebration,  
'Cause we all know in our minds  
That there ought to be a time  
That we can set aside  
To show just how much - ah .. huhrrm..b..bloo._

_And I'm sure you would agree  
It couldn't fit more perfectly  
Than to have a big party on the day you came to be._

_"Happy birthday to you_  
_Happy birthday to you_  
_Happy birthday_

_"Happy birthday to you_  
_Happy birthday to you_  
_Happy birthday."_

The rhythm continued as Dean put down the guitar and moved over to Sam still crooning "happy birthday . . . Happy birthday. Happy birthday to you . . ."

"I'm not sure Stevie Wonder would approve," Sam observed, earning himself an expression of pleased surprise from Dean. "Considering that song's supposed to be a tribute to – "

"Art's like that, Sam," Dean interrupted, and he took Sam's hand and lifted him to his feet. "It belongs to the world. Once it's out there, no one has any control over what's made of it. C'mere, Sam."

"What? No wait, Dean, I can't dance!" Sam objected as Dean slid the towel from his shoulders, threaded arms around his neck and started swaying in time to the music.

"Man up, Sam," Dean chuckled. "It's just rhythmic shuffling." His hand dropped to Sam's hip where he hooked a finger into a belt loop and tugged. Sam stumbled forward and found himself pressed flat against Dean's body. He discovered there were certain advantages to 'rhythmic shuffling' when he felt the warmth of Dean's groin seeping through the denim of his own jeans as Dean rocked and swayed against him. It was ridiculous how fast his body reacted to that friction. A hot flush washed over his body, and as his own erection blossomed he could feel Dean's rising to meet it.

Dean snuggled against Sam's neck and crooned "happy birthday to you" along to the music. Sam swallowed. He turned his head and murmured next to his friend's ear "Dean . . ."

"Mmmmmmmm?" Dean responded, and Sam caught his breath as Dean rocked his hips into Sam's pleasantly aching and throbbing flesh.

Sam's head swam and he took a moment to recover his senses, then he whispered "thank you."

There was another pause, a long one, before Dean cleared his throat and mumbled "'s what friends are for, Buddy." After another beat he turned his head and his lips found Sam's, and then there was nothing in Sam's world but the rhythm, the sway, the warmth in his arms, and tasting Dean in his mouth. Presently his head rocked back and he found himself staring into dark liquid eyes.

"So, do you want to unwrap your present now?" Dean asked quietly.

"I thought you said later," Sam reminded him, but Dean just smiled gently.

"I'm the gift that keeps giving, Sam," he explained. "You can unwrap me as often as you like."

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***A/N: This card actually exists (at least, in my neck of the woods :) Full details will be given in the closing credits after the final scene of this story has been posted, but if you google "mr snugglewhiskers" you'll find there are wonderful people who have recorded movies of the card and posted it on youtube! :)**


	4. Scene 2b

_**A/N: My apologies for having taken so long to finish this scene. It proved oddly challenging to write and other commitments got in the way, but I hope now it's finished you'll feel it was worth the wait. This follows directly on from the previous action so, if you have time, please re-read the last update before you continue. It'll help to recreate the atmosphere, and there's an important reference back at the end of the scene. Hope you enjoy the scene :)**_

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Opening the blinds had been a pointless exercise really: they only had to close them again. And Dean took his boots and socks off, just to be kind of on a level with Sam who was still in just his boxers and jeans. That still left Dean over dressed by a t-shirt and over-shirt but that was kind of the point: so Sam had something to "unwrap". He was oddly nervous about the responsibility, like he might somehow mess up the complex task of removing a shirt, but it seems Dean had plans for that as well.

"Let's slow the mood down a little," he said, moving over to the laptop and starting to search through his vast range of play-lists.

Sam suppressed a smile. "You want to go _slow_? Really?" he asked, feigning surprise. He wondered if Dean had ever, in the heat of passion, just ripped off his clothes and gone for it . . . and then he decided he really didn't want to know the answer to that question.

Dean quickly found what he was looking for and as he sauntered back toward Sam he reproved him with an arch of his eyebrows. "Trust me," he insisted, "there are some things you don't want to rush." Taking Sam's hands in his, he laid them on his stomach and moved them slowly upward, holding them between the warmth of his palms and the heat radiating through the thin material of the tee, giving them time to feel every line and contour, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the solid thump of his heartbeat, letting them rest there while his eyes held Sam's: wide, dark and inviting.

Sam swallowed. Point made.

He realized he could hear the music of a new track playing quietly . . . if "music" was what you would call it . . . just a steady percussive rhythm playing over and over, and one low continuous note on some kind of woodwind instrument – a didgeridoo? It had a quality of tribal music: a deep, rich sound, vibrant and earthy . . . kind of like Dean . . .

Sam lifted his palms up and over the curve of Dean's shoulders and pushed the over-shirt along with them until it slid down his arms to the floor. His body was swaying under Sam's hands, just slightly, and there was a suggestion of movement in his muscles, a subtle tightening and relaxing in time with the rhythm. Sam could feel it as his fingers traced back down to Dean's waist and slipped under the t-shirt where warm flesh quivered under his touch.

The music was gaining texture now, more percussion, swishing sounds, a steady tap on a wooden block, maybe there was even a bass guitar in there strumming out the rhythm, but there was no sign of a melody, just the continuously suggestive beat and that long tremulous, rumbling note. Something about that sound was stirring things deep inside Sam, and his jeans were starting to feel tight and constricting. He ruched up the t-shirt and began pushing it up Dean's body, watching the stretch of his muscles when he lifted his arms, and breathing a little quickly, he realized. The room seemed to be getting oddly warm. There was a feeling of tension in the air, of waiting for something to happen; he might have finished pulling off the t-shirt more quickly than he'd intended.

And then he would have pulled Dean into his arms but Dean had other ideas. Placing his hands firmly on Sam's hips, he guided him backwards, still with that slight back and forth sway to his movements. It off-balanced Sam a little and when the edge of the bed butted into the backs of his legs he dropped down onto the mattress with a bump that drove a small gust of breath from his lips. Dean followed him down, parting his thighs to straddle Sam's legs and dropping his knees onto the mattress either side of Sam's hips, and suddenly his threats about lap dances rushed back into Sam's head.

"Oh, no, Dean, wait!" Sam objected. "I didn't think you'd seriously – "

"Hell, I'm serious!" Dean interrupted. "I _researched _this."

"Researched _how_?" Sam demanded, before he could stop himself.

For a brief moment Dean actually looked embarrassed. "Tutorials on youtube," he confessed with an awkward shrug, and just a hint of a blush gracing his cheeks.

Sam laughed, relieved, and not to mention surprised that Dean had needed to consult _youtube_ for advice on lap-dancing.

"Adapted to _my own_ inimitable style," Dean insisted, emphasizing the point with a disturbingly voluptuous roll of his body.

Sam was caught between embarrassment and curiosity and, if he was honest, growing arousal. The way Dean's body moved, the play of his muscles in time to the music was . . . Sam sucked in a quick breath and chuckled. "Well, since you've gone to so much trouble . . ."

Dean rolled his shoulders from side to side as he leaned close to Sam. "Anything for the birthday boy," he murmured, breathing warm over Sam's ear. Then he lifted Sam's hands once more and ran them leisurely up his legs and over the curve of his hips, leaving them resting suggestively at the belt buckle while his own hands continued up Sam's arms and draped themselves over his shoulders. A new element entered the music: brass instruments breathing just isolated notes here and there . . . the _same_ note. Still no tune. The music was all suggestion and promise, wait and anticipation. There was a continual sense of forward momentum but no clear direction, nothing you could get a solid grip on; all you could do was trust that eventually it would get _somewhere_ . . .

Sam could see why Dean would like it . . .

The rock of Dean's hips, the press of his arms against Sam's shoulders, had Sam's body swaying with him. Sam exhaled a tiny shivering breath and his dick swelled against the unyielding denim of his jeans. He was starting to sweat and he noticed Dean's flesh had a slight sheen to it, too, and when he looked up he found Dean staring back down at him, eyes blown wide and dark: he was feeling it, too.

With trembling fingers Sam unbuckled Dean's belt and drew down the zipper on his jeans. His breath caught when he got his first glimpse of the bulge that was stretching the snug material of Dean's under-shorts. As he peeled back the denim he couldn't resist trailing his thumb over that warm mound, and he smiled when he heard a responsive hitch in Dean's breath.

"_Naughty_," Dean admonished, chuckling quietly. "You have to finish unwrapping your present before you can play with it."

Sam grinned and obediently finished drawing Dean's pants down his smooth, taut thighs. When they were down as far as they could go Dean swung his body back and straightened up. The jeans dropped to the floor, pooling around his ankles, and he stepped out of them, unhurriedly, one leg at a time, then kicked them off to the side out of the way. It was a cheesy stripper move and Sam hovered on the border of laughing, but Dean kind of carried it off . . . and it kind of turned Sam on . . .

There was a transition in the music, the beat got heavier, harder, like a slow hand clap; Dean bent his knees and dropped his hips into the downbeat, raised and dropped again – up, down, up, down – and Sam watched with rapt fascination as his body moved, thigh muscles rippling, abs tightening, biceps flexed, arms, shoulders, all a subtle expression of the rhythm. Sam was reminded of something . . .

"Is that . . . a haka move?" he asked.

Dean pursed his lips as he rose and dropped, rose and dropped, a little closer to Sam each time. "There might be some Maori warrior influence," he acknowledged.

"With didgeridoo music?" Sam queried.

Dean looked blank for moment, then irked. With a sudden forward motion he slid his knees across the bed cover, snapping his hips into Sam's, and Sam gasped and moaned a little as he felt Dean's crotch warm and snug against his.

"Don't diss my cross-cultural moves," Dean growled into Sam's ear, nuzzling the sensitive flesh behind it with the tip of his nose until Sam was shivering from warm chills skittering over his shoulders and down his spine.

Dean sat up and started working his hips right in front of Sam, dropping until he was almost – but not quite – sitting on Sam's knees, and rocking forward until he was almost – but not quite – thrusting into Sam's face. As he moved he was running Sam's hands up and down the warm, slightly sweat slick flesh of his thighs: up the outside, around and over the warm curves of his butt as he raised his hips, back down to his knees as he dropped then back up the insides, over the smooth, rippling arch of muscle, up to his hips and almost – _Jesus! _Sam's fingers itched to grab at Dean's shorts, pull them down, and _Jesus fuck_ he wanted out of his own jeans, _needed_ out of them _right the fuck now_!

Dean must have read his mind. His hands stroked up Sam's arms to his shoulders once more, rocking him in time with the sway of his own body and filling his head with thoughts of things that all required his pants _off_, then Dean gave him a little push and he was falling backwards onto his back, and he felt Dean's fingers at the waistband of his jeans, popping the button.

"Oh, _yeah!_" he gasped. "Oh, _fuck_, yeah!" He pushed his hips up into Dean's hands, felt warm fingers against his crotch and heard the metallic rasp of the zip being drawn down. "_Gguuuuuuhhhhhrrrrrrrr!_" he moaned as the material of his jeans gave and parted and he felt blessedly free from their constraint. Dean slid his hands under the denim, over Sam's hips and under his ass, and Sam's back instinctively arched up. Cool refreshing air washed his thighs as Dean tugged, the jeans came off in one fluid pull and Sam heard a clink and thud as they hit a wall somewhere over the other side of the room. Then Dean was kind of crawling up his body, deliberate, panther like, and he was hovering over Sam with a big cocky grin on his face . . . and Sam couldn't just let that go . . .

"I thought _I_ was supposed to be unwrapping _you_," he pointed out.

If anything, Dean's grin broadened. "Oh, my bad, Sam. That wasn't what you wanted?" His body undulated over Sam's and, just barely, the warm bulge of his shorts grazed the tented front of Sam's boxers, sending a sharp flaring thrill of pleasure and excitement through Sam's groin. "You want me to put them back on again for you?" he enquired

"_Gguuuuuuuuhhsh-sh-shuttup_!" Sam gasped, and to emphasize the point he grabbed Dean's head and stopped his mouth with his own. Dean played along, at first, rolling his lips over Sam's and suckling his tongue while his body continued to ripple sinuously above him, teasing him with an occasional brush of his hips until Sam was oak-hard and aching, and whimpering into Dean's mouth. But then Dean pulled away, sat back on his haunches and his hips were rocking backwards and forwards, up and down, and with each downbeat his body dropped and his crotch bumped lightly down on Sam's, briefly riding the length of his dick before rising up again.

"_Jesus, Dean!_" Sam gasped breathlessly, humping up and chasing Dean's body with his but, somehow, Dean managed to stay maddeningly out of reach. He made a grab for Dean's hips and tried to push him down but Dean swatted his hands away.

"Don't you know you're not supposed to touch unless you're invited, Sam?" Dean taunted, smiling. "It's against the rules."

"_Fuck the rules!_" Sam growled, and then he realized he was holding an ace he could play . . . in fact, it was an even better card than an ace. "_My_ birthday, _my_ rules," he insisted.

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Oh, _yeah_?" he challenged.

Sam grinned. "_Yeah,_" he retorted, grabbing Dean's hips again, then he humped up and rolled, taking Dean with him and pinning him on his back on the mattress. Dean gasped and his eyes widened but only momentarily. Sam waited, gave him space to adjust, and then he relaxed and grinned back at Sam.

"Well, since it's your birthday," he acknowledged with a nonchalant shrug, then his thighs embraced Sam's hips and he began moving beneath him, still in time with that _friggin' _rhythm, but damned if Sam wasn't moving to it, too. It was kind of impossible not to and, besides, it felt good: the slow steady bump and grind of their bodies and some solid friction at last. _So _good. Dean thought so, too, he could tell. Each thrust from Sam drew gasps and grunts from his lips, and Sam met them with his own breathy sighs and moans. Their mouths sought each other once more; lips, tongues, melting together, and Sam swam in the dizzying taste and scent of Dean, cradling his head, fingers tangling in his hair, and he could feel Dean's warm hands sliding down his back and over the curve of his hips, fingers gathering up the back of his boxers and burying themselves in the flesh of his butt. And – _oh_, _thank God – _the music felt like it was getting somewhere at last, sounded like it was actually trying to break into a tune or at least a refrain, just a couple of notes really, playing back and forth, but there was _something _growing_._

Their breath sounded loud, coming out in hard staccato bursts as they rocked together. Dean's fingers were wrapped up in Sam's boxers, pulling and rolling until they were just a tangled rope around Sam's hips. He lifted up and Dean pushed them down his thighs, and then there was just the one thin layer of Dean's shorts separating their flesh as they slid and pressed against one another. Sam gasped and moaned into Dean's mouth, feeling his heat, his hardness, moving beneath him, and felt the sound returned to him as a growl, a low rumble that reverberated in Sam's chest.

They broke for air and Sam was staring down into Dean's eyes staring large and liquid back up at him, his plump lips parted and huffing broken gusts of air with each thrust of Sam's hips. Gradually his head rocked back and his eyes flickered half closed and a hungry groan escaped his mouth that Sam felt thrill though every part of his own body.

"_U – uhh . . . Sam . . ." _Dean gasped, and he rolled his hips, lifted his knees and folded his legs over Sam's back, and now Sam was moving with his shaft pressed against the so, so hot flesh of Dean's ass. Sam was moaning from the friction, the delicious ache of it, and he could hear Dean's voice crooning next to his ear.

Another shift and – _God! – _Sam could feel the puckering rose of Dean's flesh pressing hot against the tight, sensitive head of his dick, and only the thin elastic material of the shorts preventing him from – _fuck!_ The tone of their mingled groans shifted, climbed the scale, turned urgent. The shudder, the rock of Sam's hips was all but automatic as he mimed fuck movements against Dean's body and his skin flushed hot with visions of being inside Dean, feeling Dean's heat, tight and quivering around him . . .

It was too much – too much – Sam broke away, in defiance of Dean's whimpered protests and the heavy aching weight leaping and quivering between his own thighs. He rested his head on Dean's chest, trying to regain control of his panting breath, feeling the rapid rise and fall of the rib cage and the rapid thump-thump-thump of the heart beneath his forehead. Dean's eager, encouraging thrusts beneath him weren't helping him to focus, but he was afraid of being consumed by feelings that could push them both into something neither of them were ready for. He moved lower instead, and Dean's breath gusted out a little faster, a little harder, as Sam's head coasted down his body until his lips brushed the trembling flesh just above the waistline of his shorts. The rhythm of his body movements acquired a kind of excited stutter and his whimpers became snuffles of excitement and anticipation.

When Sam moved to the front of Dean's shorts and started running his tongue over the outline of his dick, he sensed from the accompanying moans that Dean's upward thrusts were no longer voluntary. As he licked and sucked, Sam could taste the salty flavor of Dean's juices leaking through, and he found himself rubbing his head and face over the warm mound, drinking in the earthy smell of clean sweat and sex. He started nipping and nibbling softly, just tracing the edges of his teeth over the twitching, straining column . . . and then Dean just kind of lost it a little.

"_Nnnnuuuhhhh! S-Sam!_" he stammered. "_Fuck_ – _nngg – gguuh_ – take 'em off – _ahh_ – fuck . . . take – Sam – _t-take them off!_"

Sam looked up, breath caught in his chest, excited and exhilarated and heart thumping at the sight of Dean, eyes heavy-lidded, jaw slack, and panting through loose, parted lips. His fingers shook a little as they curled around the waistband of the shorts and he peeled them down. Dean actually whined as his dick was released, a tiny needy sound that made Sam's flesh buzz and his insides flutter. Dean reached for Sam's head and his fingers curled into Sam's hair, not pulling or pushing, but just coaxing, urging Sam toward him.

"Mmm – Sam . . ." His hips shivered and bucked upward. "_S- Sam_ . . ." he gasped.

Sam's lips curled close to the quivering shaft; it leapt and strained as if it was seeking for him. He took it in hand, stilled it, held it, and he glanced up into Dean's eager eyes and licked his lips before dropping his head, opening his mouth and sinking down slow, long and smooth. Dean let out a cry that began a whole octave higher than his natural voice, ululated down the scale and ended low, low, guttural and raw. It resonated through Sam's body, made him shudder, made him want more. He played his lips and tongue up and down Dean's length, licking and sucking until Dean was keening and writhing beneath him.

Sam was half conscious of music rising, swelling in the background as Dean suddenly rolled and swept Sam over onto his side, fumbling at his boxers and dragging them the rest of the way down his legs, over his ankles and off. He lifted his knees and finished kicking his own shorts off as well, then scooted down the bed, lifted and wrapped his fingers around Sam's swollen, aching dick. It was Sam's turn to gasp and pant now, and to watch as Dean's tongue swept wetly over his lips, watch those lush, glossy pads part and watch, for as long as he could, their slow roll over his waiting shivering flesh before his vision melted into white blur and dark blotches and he sank into the moist heat of Dean's mouth.

He felt rather than saw Dean move, twisting around, inverting himself on the bed until Sam became aware of the heat of his body close to his face, then the familiar earthy scent, the brush of smooth taut flesh against his mouth leaving a slick, salty tasting trail across his lips. Sam's eyes snapped open momentarily then closed again as he reached for Dean, opened for him, swallowed him down, and he shuddered as the glide of Dean's flesh in his mouth was accompanied by a moan from Dean that hummed through Sam's body until Sam was moaning in harmony with him. And Dean's hands were warm all over him, fondling his balls, curling and sliding up and down his shaft. And Dean's mouth – _God! _So hot, so wet – his lips: so soft – his tongue: languid, busy tongue, doing things; thrilling, aching, dizzying things.

Sam's free hand threaded between Dean's legs and Dean quickly spread his thighs open for him, inviting his touch, and as his fingers traced over the sensitive flesh behind Dean's balls he felt the long arching shudder of Dean's body, and the thrill of his responsive groan buzzing through his own flesh. There was something pleading in that sound. Dean's thrusts were urgent in his mouth, hips pushing, angling forward; thighs splayed wide apart and trembling. A series of tiny noises communicated he wanted something from Sam:

"m – m – m – m – mhamm – m – _mha-ammm_ . . ."

Sam trailed a tentative, exploring finger back from Dean's balls until he felt the crinkled rose of flesh under his touch and Dean bucked like he'd sent an electric charge through his body.

"_MMMMMMMMMM!_"

Dean's growl reverberated through his flesh and then he was pumping his mouth feverishly up and down Sam's shaft until Sam was blind with pleasure and it was a reflexive, instinctive thing when he curled his finger and pushed, dipped it into the puckering heat of Dean's body, just the tip, but it was enough. Dean bucked again, gasped, Sam felt his balls draw up, tighten, felt Dean full and hard and pulsing in his mouth, tasted him over his tongue and in the back of his throat, and a moment later the answering throb in his own groin, pumping into Dean as a hot stretching tingling tremor thrummed along the length of his body. Somewhere in the midst of it he felt Dean's warm hand moving up him, reaching, seeking, finding his, and their fingers interlaced as they exchanged panting breaths and moans.

Sam's head was spinning. He drew away to get air and nuzzled against Dean's still gently throbbing shaft, feeling the radiating warmth of Dean's body and the tickle of coarse hair against his face. After a little while he felt Dean tug at his hand and then he sat up and kind of grappled his way up Sam's body until he was back the right way and lying at Sam's side. Gathering up the bedcovers he drew them into a warm cocoon around them both and pressed his lips soft against Sam's. The kiss went on a long time, and Sam could taste the slightly sharper tang of his own juices mingled with Dean's in their mouths. Eventually they both needed air again and they rested with their foreheads leaning together while they waited for their breathing and heart rates to return to some semblance of normality. Sam watched with a strange kind of fascination as Dean blew long, low breaths out from between his pursed lips.

"Was that O.K, Dean? What I did?" he asked.

Dean's eyelashes flickered up briefly then lowered again, and he huffed out something like a soft chuckle. "Yeah, that was O.K, Sam," he assured him, and kissed him again. Then he squirmed and wriggled and seemed to be making himself comfortable against Sam's shoulder. He closed his eyes. "You O.K, Sam?" he asked.

"Yeah," Sam said, even though he was worried they might be getting _too_ comfortable, might be in danger of falling asleep. He was pretty sure Dean was starting to drop off when he mumbled something low and quiet that Sam didn't quite catch. Sounded something like 'ahurmbloo'.

"What?" Sam asked.

Dean seemed to stop breathing, and he just muttered "nothing, Sam" then, after a moment more, "I said, happy birthday."

* * *

_**A/N: The music Dean plays in this scene is from the soundtrack to the movie "Crocodile Dundee". If you're not familiar with it, or would like to remind yourself, you can find it on youtube by searching the phrase "**__**Crocodile Dundee - Theme from Crocodile Dundee" (Make sure you click on the Silas Krieger version). Then close your eyes, forget about Crocodile Dundee, and imagine Dean dancing to it. Go on. You'll be glad you did :)**_

_**.**_


	5. Scene 3

**A/N: **_**Apologies everyone for the long delay since I last posted. At the moment I'm in the middle of a big work project that is absorbing my time and concentration, so I fear I won't be able to post regularly over the next few weeks. However, once the project is over I've decided I won't be repeating it, so normal service will resume after that. I hope you can all bear with me until then. My thanks to you all for your support.**_

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The sky was a bright cobalt blue fading to pale ultramarine nearer the horizon. The more distant hills were a misty blend of indigo and violet, while the nearer slopes were better defined with a more vivid range of colors. The trees were really just blotches of color, but a varied mix of green and brown shades conveyed an impression of leaves and branches. The bottle green grass at their roots graduated to chartreuse in the foreground, littered with blobs of terracotta and kingfisher to suggest corn chip packets and discarded Twinkie wrappers.

Dean was more complicated. He was more than a token shape or a collection of suggestive colors. It took time and concentration to make a proper study of him, to get the perspective right, the light and shade. Much of him was still little more than a penciled outline, but Sam was slowly coloring in the detail.

There were details the drawing didn't show, like the salt rope that circled a protective space around them. Sam had expressed doubts about the advisability of this 'picnic' and he'd found it hard to relax at first in spite of all their precautions, but it had seemed oddly important to Dean so, in spite of his misgivings, he'd found himself spending the afternoon on a hill outside Red Lodge, sketching. Eventually he had to admit to himself, there was something to be said for the activity: its stillness, its concentrated focus. He found it quieted his mind and allowed him to release some of his ever present anxiety while remaining attentive to the immediate environment. If anything, it heightened his awareness.

The sketch couldn't capture the quiet sounds floating from the laptop, either. One of the biggest advantages of having a birthday, Sam was discovering, was that it apparently entitled him to a day off from Dean's relentless efforts to annoy him. In fact, Dean was going out of his way to consider Sam's preferences. He began the afternoon reading and listening to his music through ear pieces so Sam could draw in peace and quiet. In practice, though, he couldn't stop himself from tapping and singing along to songs Sam couldn't hear, which was more irritating, so he compromised on listening to movie and TV scores. That tended to be less intrusive, especially since Dean wasn't so inclined to sing along when there was no lyric, though he did occasionally whistle.

Dean glanced up from his book and caught Sam watching him, and Sam quickly returned his attention to the sketch pad.

"What?" Dean demanded.

Sam shook his head. "Nothing."

Dean narrowed his eyes suspiciously but continued reading. Presently he seemed to conclude that the interruption had invited a discussion.

"So, it says here that light can be either a particle or a wave, depending how you look at it," he observed. "But a particle . . . that's a physical thing, right?"

"It has physical properties," Sam agreed cautiously.

Dean continued "and according to this guy, Einstein reckoned EMF are 'physical entities' too," he quoted.

"They certainly have physical effects," Sam observed ruefully

"True that," Dean agreed. He pursed his lips reflectively. "So, I was right after all: everything's material, even energy."

Sam could feel a frown settling on his features. "That's what you're taking from that book?"

Dean reached for a bag and stuffed a quantity of corn chips into his mouth. "Why? What do you take from it?"

"Well, scientists used to think the atom was the smallest particle of matter, but then we split the atom and found smaller particles. Then it turned out the particles had particles. There've been theories that there comes a point where the particles themselves are really just patterns of energy. So maybe, fundamentally, everything is just energy waves. Even matter."

Dean stared at Sam for a couple of beats then shrugged. "You say potayto, I say potahto."

Sam grinned and shook his head, but he didn't argue. Maybe that was kind of the point.

"Still, that might explain how a spirit can sock you in the kisser," Dean ventured. "Or how a demon can possess a human body and still somehow vanish into thin air. Maybe these supernatural spooks have some kind of handle on this matter-is-energy/energy-is-matter crap."

"Maybe," Sam acknowledged.

Dean turned the book and gazed at the image of the Taijitu on the jacket. "But what does all that have to do with Eastern mojo?" he asked.

"The author's drawing comparisons with Eastern philosophies that say the apparent separateness of things is an illusion," Sam explained. "They believe that the underlying reality is one vast unified being or process."

Dean rolled his eyes a little. "Why, oh why didn't I take the _blue_ pill?" he muttered quietly.

"What?"

"Nothing." He shook his head. "It's from _The Matrix. _Doesn't matter."

Sam glanced down at his sketch and tried another tack. "Have you ever seen any of Van Gogh's paintings?" he asked. "In his later period they were really just splotches of color that gave the impression of objects – mountains, trees etc – but, in a painting, none of the shapes has any meaning except in relation to each other. The different hues and shades give them an appearance of perspective and solidity, but really it's all the same medium: paint. The underlying reality is the canvas, or the painting process itself. Van Gogh's method was really dynamic. When you look at his work it makes you feel like everything in it is in continuous motion, even the most solid objects. That's how he saw the world. That's how some Eastern mystics see it. Maybe some Western scientists, too. " Sam indicated the book.

Dean stared at Sam rather oddly. His expression was unfathomable. Presently he nodded toward the sketch pad. "Well, are you going to show me this masterpiece, then?" he asked.

Sam hesitated then hugged the pad closer to his chest. "No . . . no, it isn't finished yet," he murmured.

"Oh, so it's a _work_ _in process_." Dean grinned, but then he seemed more serious. "Maybe we all are," he acknowledged. "I get what you're saying, Sam, but you can't think like that. You can't _live_ like that, can you? I mean – " He slapped the ground by his side. "This is the reality we have to deal with. This is solid. It might be a nice idea to think that you're one with a tree or a bird or . . ." he made a vague gesture at Sam then wiped awkwardly at the back of his neck. "Scarlett Johansson or – "

_Scarlett Johansson?!_

"I dunno – the Dalai Lama . . . but there's the other side of that coin. It would mean we're one with all the monsters and demons we hunt, too. And if you really believed that – I mean _actually _believed it – then what would be the point in what we do? What would be the point in _anything? _Why would you even get up in the morning?"

Sam started to get the feeling this conversation was more than idle intellectual enquiry for Dean. He should have realized that a materialist like Dean would be uncomfortable with philosophies that challenged the idea of the individual ego, the reality of his own identity. But, then, why was he so interested in the book?

Dean sat up and shuffled over on his knees until he was planted between Sam's thighs, and his hands slid warm up Sam's denim wrapped shins until they were molded around the shape of his knees. "There are practical considerations, you know," he insisted in a warm molasses voice. "After all, if we weren't solid and separate to begin with, where would be the fun in getting together?"

A wash of hot and cool tingles skittered over Sam's body and he shifted a little uncomfortably under Dean's touch 'cause . . . _yeah_ . . . but . . . here? Out in the open? Not a good idea. "Well, you know, in some Eastern mythologies . . ." Sam cleared his throat and a shy grin twitched at the corners of his lips. "God made the separate appearances of the world out of himself . . . that he might know himself." he added.

Dean tugged back his head and studied Sam quizzically. "What? In the Biblical sense?"

"Well . . ." Sam flushed. He'd started this. Now he was up to his neck in it. "I think it's more of a metaphor, you know?" . . . although, in some of the lore the stories were pretty literal about it . . .

Dean picked up the book once more and studied the front cover. He flashed the picture at Sam. "Is that why the yin/yang thing looks like a sixty-nine?" he asked.

Sam stared at the picture of the two inverted tear drops wrapped around each other, each embracing – swallowing, if you like – a part of the other, and his flush deepened. After the morning's activities he couldn't avoid taking Dean's point. He was never going to think about that symbol the same way again! "A '69' is the other way up," he insisted, all the same.

Dean studied him levelly. "Wasn't talking about the _number_, Sam," he pointed out.

Sam smiled and shook his head. "Do you have to reduce _everything _to sex?" he complained.

"Nothing reductive about it. Sex is a beautiful, natural act." Dean grinned and leaned in for a kiss but, just as Sam's mouth was opening for him, he hooked his finger over the top of the sketch pad and tugged, forcing Sam to grab it back and hold it in the air.

"Aw, come on, Sammy," Dean teased. "How bad can it be?"

There followed a tussle with Sam pinned to the tree behind him, exchanging the pad from hand to hand while Dean tried to snatch it from him, though he wasn't sure whether Dean really was trying that hard to get it, or whether he was just enjoying the tease and the squirm of their bodies. "It isn't finished yet!" Sam insisted and eventually Dean sat back on his haunches sporting an exaggerated pout.

"Well, hurry up and finish, then!" he complained.

It occurred to Sam that his friend had passed his usual limits for sitting still anywhere. "Are you getting bored, Dean?" he asked.

"No!" Dean replied quickly, in a slightly offended tone. "I'm just eager to see your handiwork, Vincent."

Sam laughed. "Well, don't build up your expectations too much," he warned.

Dean sat back and picked up his book once more but presently he grimaced and tossed it aside. Apparently he was done with it. Lifting up the laptop he changed the music and opened another app and was soon absorbed in whatever he was doing instead, so Sam relaxed and returned to sketching and a peaceful silence descended.

Time passed. At first Sam was barely aware that the quiet was occasionally interrupted by soft breaths and grunts coming from where Dean was sitting, but after a while the sounds started to acquire a distinct – and thoroughly distracting – familiarity. He found himself listening for them, and eventually a suppressed squeak was unavoidably recognizable. Dean was _definitely _making sex noises!

Sam turned and stared at him. "Dean, are you watching _porn_?!" Sam wasn't sure what affronted him the most: that Dean was doing it here, right in front of Sam, or the fact that he even _wanted_ to after what they'd been doing all morning.

Dean looked up. "_No-o_!" he insisted, though there was a telltale tinge of pink growing in his cheeks.

Sam crossed his arms and glared. "So you know," he said, "if the word 'no' takes two syllables and a key change to say, it means 'yes'." He continued to stare Dean out until he buckled under the pressure.

"O.K, well, I'm _reading_ porn," he acknowledged. "Technically. But it's legitimate research."

Sam snorted. "What? You think we may have to hunt a porn monster?"

Dean shrugged. "Well, we should be prepared. We could get hit with sex pollen or a fuck-or-die curse."

Sam continued to stare, but now it was mainly from confusion. "_What?_"

Dean grinned. "This is _personal_ research, Sam," he explained, tapping the screen. "On guy sex."

Sam felt slightly winded. "Oh," he said presently. His insides were beginning to flutter with a muddle of mixed feelings. "I'm . . . I'm not sure I'm ready for . . . for . . ."

"Well, I'm not saying I am, either . . . necessarily," Dean interrupted quickly. "I'm just . . . like I said: be prepared." He grinned awkwardly. "You should read this, too. You never know when you might need to know the best way to de-hymenate a nervous virgin." Dean hitched his eyebrows then reflected for a moment. "O.K. I am _never_ gonna use that expression again," he promised.

Sam was too busy dealing with the other bombshells in that statement to debate its tasteless terminology. Was Dean suggesting _himself_ as the 'nervous virgin' in this scenario? Well . . . technically, perhaps . . . but it was still a mind-blowing concept. And Sam was surprised if Dean was intending to let Sam top after what happened the first time.

"I've . . . er . . . I've done some reading on . . ." He cleared his throat. "Since . . ." By now he was blushing furiously, and Dean was grinning impishly.

"Oh, let me guess: AMA's _Anal Anatomy_?" he suggested. "The _WHO Guide to Safe Sodomy_?"

Sam glared at him, but couldn't deny the gist of it.

"Sam, WHO can tell you the 'what', the 'where' and 'how' but it won't talk about the 'why'. If you want to get to the heart of the matter," Dean tapped the screen, "read slash fiction."

Sam was unfamiliar with the term. "What's a slash fiction?" he enquired.

"As in fan-fiction," Dean explained, "about books, TV and movie characters and actors . . . together."

Sam raised his eyebrows. "Like, _together_ together?" he asked, for clarification.

Dean held out the laptop and Sam took it from him, noting the site he was browsing: "_The Journal of Sinful Fanfiction Slash Archive_".net. Sure enough, it was open at a page that appeared to contain a lurid sex scene between two guys. After a cursory glimpse at the content he clicked on the author penname. He was curious to know what kind of person would write this kind of thing. What he found in the bio surprised him.

"Er . . . you do know this writer's a _woman_, right?"

Dean shrugged. "Doesn't seem to matter".

Sam's mouth dropped open. "Dean, this is friggin' insane! You're taking advice on male-male sex, from _women_?!"

Dean scratched at the back of his neck. "Yeah, but it's like I said: it isn't about the technical details," he explained. "It's about the spirit, the flavour of the thing."

Sam rolled his eyes. "I reiterate: frigging insane."

Dean shrugged apologetically. "What can I say? Women write great porn."

Sam gave him a withering glance and quoted a random line from the page on the screen: "And then Sal caressed Dane's clavicle. 'This is wrong,' Dane said. 'Then I don't want to be right,' Sal replied, in a husky voice."

Dean grimaced. "Yeah. Well, keep on reading. It gets better."

Sam rolled his eyes but read a little further down the page. Then a little further. Then . . . it got better. A _lot_ better. Heat began to flood his face and spread down his chest and he quickly closed the laptop and repositioned it on his lap. No way he was reading any more of _that. _Not while Dean was watching, anyway.

"So, what d'you think?" Dean prompted, his eyes twinkling mischievously. "Pretty good command of vocabulary and imagery, right?"

Sam's head was filled with imagery, and an accompanying soundtrack of Dean's voice making the kind of noises the story implied were appropriate. "Um, yah," he replied huskily. He cleared his throat. "Do . . . is . . . is that all . . . _true_?"

Dean laughed, a little awkwardly. "You tell me, Sam. You're the one who's had some experience in this area."

The pleasant images evaporated like a popped soap bubble. _That again! _Sam irritably pushed the laptop off his knees and shoved it back at Dean. "God! Dean! Why do you keep bringing up the friggin' hooker? You're fixated! I wish I'd never told you about it!"

Dean was shocked and Sam was immediately sorry he'd overreacted. He hated seeing that little-boy-lost look on his friend's face.

"Sorry," Dean apologized, a tone of hurt lacing his voice. "I just thought you might have learned something useful is all." He picked up the computer and looked like he was going to busy himself with something new, conversation over.

"Oh," Sam said uncomfortably, and presently he continued in a more level tone. "Not really. It was my first time and I didn't know what I was doing; I was nervous; it was all over very quickly. He acted like he enjoyed it but, like you said, that was his job." After a moment he added "I don't think he meant it."

Dean glanced at Sam out of the corner of his eye. "Didn't mean to pry, Sam," he said quietly.

"No, you're right," Sam acknowledged. "It was relevant."

After a moment Dean asked "so, why _did_ you tell me? The first time, I mean. Not like you've ever been big on sharing and we'd only just met. Were you trying to shock me? Put ideas in my head about your sexuality? What?"

Sam smiled ruefully. "I dunno. Maybe both," he acknowledged. "I seem to remember there was beer involved."

"Oh, come on," Dean challenged. "You weren't drunk. You were sharp enough to beat those hustlers at pool."

"It's always easier to confide in strangers," Sam reflected. "If I'd known we were going to be spending the next six months together . . ." He hesitated, then after a pause he admitted "I was trying to rattle you Dean. I thought you were a smartass college kid and I wanted to shock you. I'm sorry. I didn't know you back then."

Dean was quiet at first, but then he snorted "I wasn't shocked."

Sam chuckled. "Oh, you _were_!"

"Was _not_," Dean insisted. "I was _surprised_. You just didn't seem the type."

"What _type_?" Sam demanded, laughing outright.

"No – I didn't mean – " Dean had embarrassed himself. "I just mean: paying for sex? Doesn't seem your gig, somehow."

Sam's laughter was brought up short and he let out a long sigh. "I was on a case," he explained at last. "We needed information the hooker could give me. It was about 2 parts curiosity, 3 parts needed the intel."

Dean's face fell. _Now_ he was shocked. "Wow."

"Things were different back then, Dean," Sam tried to explain. "_I _was different."

Dean held up his hands. "Hey, I'm not judging, really," he assured him. "I'm just . . ." He didn't finish the sentence, just gazed at Sam with troubled eyes. Presently he knelt up and moved over to Sam once more, rested a hand against his face and tilted up his chin. "Ah, c'mere, Sam," he breathed.

It was . . . different . . . from the many ways Dean usually kissed him. His lips were soft against Sam's, his mouth moved slow and gentle. The fingers of one hand cradled Sam's neck, barely brushing the roots of his hair while his other thumb tenderly stroked Sam's cheek. There was no tongue, no tease, no escalation; no sense that this was a prelude to anything else. It was all just now –this long, long, moment . . . and Sam. It almost wasn't sexual at all, except that Sam was becoming wildly turned on. His heart was hammering harder and faster and his chest was filling tight with strange, aching emotion. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes. He swallowed and had to break away; it was overwhelming.

Dean's wide dark eyes were gazing searchingly at him, and in the silence Sam could hear his own heart and the blood drumming in his ears, and the rasp of his rapid breath.

"Do you want to go back to the motel?" Dean asked quietly.

_Yes._

_No, wait._

Sam placed a steadying hand on Dean's chest to give himself – give them both – a moment. Dean's heart was beating as rapidly as his own.

What _was_ this? Where was it going? Sam was confused. Dean always talked like it was all so simple and straightforward: satisfying an appetite, fun, friends with benefits – but that wasn't how he behaved. He still talked about women all the time, watched them, flirted and enjoyed their attention wherever he and Sam went, but he didn't look at them the way he looked at Sam. This wasn't about convenient sex; Sam didn't know much, but enough to know this felt different. This wasn't just fun any more, or therapy, or friendship. It was something complicated and powerful and they were getting deeper into it the whole time, and now they were close to crossing a line they couldn't retrace. Sam sensed it was something that could break them if they weren't careful.

If they weren't honest with each other.

He realized he couldn't put it off any longer; he had to come clean with Dean. The hammer of Sam's heart changed, turned into something more fearful, almost a kind of terror. He could still hear the echo of Meg's words back in Indiana:

_"We were from two totally different worlds. There was no way we could ever really understand each other. And the more he learned about me, the more he was gonna see that he wouldn't like."_

But Dean, the materialist, who trusted only what was solid, had also trusted the restless spirit of Donald Helfer. And Donny had told Sam he needed to have faith in his friend.

Sam swallowed and tried to keep the tremor out of his voice as he said "Dean, we need to talk."

"What?" Dean rocked back on his heels and stared at Sam. "_Why?_" he demanded, his voice oddly high pitched. "I mean, what about?"

Not here, though. And not at the motel. Sam was beginning to realize that, in spite of everything else that was going on in their lives, today he had been . . . happy. If everything was about to go south he at least wanted to preserve, in tact, the memory of those places where he had spent the happiest day of his life.

"Let's go find somewhere to eat," he suggested, trying to sound normal, but his voice was still coming out tight and constricted. "We'll talk over dinner."

Dean just stared at him for several beats, but then he got up and they started packing everything up in tense and awkward silence. When they got back to the car and loaded everything away, Dean paused before he got in.

'Sam . . . we're good? Aren't we?" he asked hesitantly.

Sam looked away and nodded awkwardly. "Yeah . . . sure," he said, without conviction. He had no way of knowing for sure. He wished he could be certain Dean would still be his friend when this conversation was over.


End file.
